


untitled (no. 3)

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, M/M, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things were getting worse in the ol’ neighborhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled (no. 3)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written at 4 am last night as some act of possession which caused me to fling about 600 words down in 10 minutes. Then I decided the best time to try polishing it a bit was at 3:30 am tonight.
> 
> A+
> 
> On the other hand, why the hell can I not write anything other than these jerks right now? /loud shrugging
> 
> Last note: this is basically me writing out an implied scene from an rp that me and a friend did. It doesn't really need much context from that au though, just that Drift ended up going back to Ratchet's clinic way more than once.

Things were getting worse in the ol’ neighborhood.

 

Drift found himself huddled inside Ratchet’s clinic, with the medic practically reconstructing his leg while muttering darkly about the whole affair. His visits here had grown alarmingly more frequent, for all the wrong reasons -- busted struts, a cracked optic, and now this business with his leg. Well. All the work he’d been able to take on after Gasket was violent and he didn’t always come out in one piece.

 

There was more brewing, but Drift kept his helm down about _that_ and, as always, worried about keeping himself alive for each coming orn.

 

Ratchet’s hands moved as he finished with the knee joint and lower leg, and now kept on to finish the repairs at Drift’s thigh. His touch was as clinical and professional as ever, but still, it brought Drift’s mind from darker places and woke the fascination that he’d always had with the swift and sure motions of the medic’s hands.

 

Ratchet really had done so much for him. Many times over he’d likely be dead if it weren’t for the mech… and Drift just kept dragging his broken, injured frame back to his clinic. No wonder Ratchet sometimes seemed inclined to greet him with flying medical tools. The thought made his lips quirk in a brief smile, but it faded again as he realized he’d never really be able to compensate for any of this. What little credits he made went to fuel, and even then he had to steal to refuel even semi-regularly…

 

With a hefty sigh, Ratchet gripped the edge of the berth and hoisted himself to his pedes. Suddenly, Drift found they were nose to nose, with one of Ratchet’s hands still on his thigh and the other resting next to his hip on the berth. Those amber optics blinked once before Drift smiled with a sudden idea. He reached out, bracing his palm against the back of Ratchet’s helm, and swiftly leaning forward to kiss him. Drift definitely knew how to please a mech, so…

 

He’d done this enough that he expected it -- he expected the surprise, since it was _Ratchet_ , but he expected for him to grasp at his waist, to crush their frames together in hunger. What happened instead was those hands resting firmly on his own shoulders and pushing Drift away. Oh, Drift could see it -- the glimmer in Ratchet’s optics, the light pant of his ventilation systems -- so why had he been pushed away? The medic letting out a snort at his confused pout wasn’t helping matters! “Ratchet--”

 

“No, Drift.”

 

Drift huffed. “But I just--”

 

Ratchet scowled. “I _know_ what you ‘just’ and _no._ Not a habit of mine to take advantage of my patients.”

 

Muttering, Drift crossed his arms protectively over his chassis, jaw jutting as he glared away from Ratchet. Sure he wanted to repay Ratchet in some way, but he did also want the mech! Didn’t that count for anything? “The only thing I have to offer is my frame,” he said sullenly. Ratchet was silent for so long that Drift chanced a peek at the medic’s face. The expression he found there was indescribable, but Ratchet quickly covered it with his normal air of grumpiness.

 

“Do you think I’d really choose this location for a clinic if I were looking to turn a profit?”

 

Drift didn’t really understand. Everyone he’d ever known -- especially those in any kind of position above him -- had been looking to get ahead. The young mech was beginning to feel uncomfortable, like he’d missed a big part of the puzzle, and he slipped off the medberth in a hurry. Maybe Ratchet just wasn't into his frametype. “Whatever,” he muttered, going for the door. “Later, doc.”

 

The door shut too swiftly behind his retreating form for him to hear the soft reply: “Hope it’s later rather than sooner, kid.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [@prowlish](https://twitter.com/prowlish) on twitter!! :)


End file.
